I kept to myself for most of the next several days. Richard's words had hit me in a way I hadn't anticipated, and I began again to wonder if I had been too hasty in my decision to leave my own camp. I wondered if Dr. Jack and the other survivors had found out about Michael yet. I wondered, with a hint of bitterness, if anyone had even realized I was gone.
I didn't see Harper again, but I wasn't about to count that as a downside. She disappeared as quickly as she had come into my life.
The village I kept referring to as Camp Kumbaya was curiously empty and quiet. The only evidence of children seemed to be a stack of board games in the clubhouse and a swingset in the center of the cluster of houses across the lawn. I never saw more than two or three people over the course of a day, and they eyed me with such suspicion I didn't dare approach to ask questions.
Finally, four days after I had arrived in the Others' village, Richard Alpert came to visit me again.
"How are you?" He asked me.
"A little lonely." I admitted.
"I thought you preferred keeping to yourself?"
"Yeah, but I guess I'd like the option, at least."
"Well… you're in luck. There's someone I think you should meet."
I allowed my gaze to follow his indication, and I saw a slight girl with a mass of wild, dark hair crossing the lawn, slumping sullenly into the backyard swing.
"Her name is Alex. I think you'll get along."
"She's not going to read me the riot act?" I asked, hesitantly.
"No. She'll probably ask you a lot of questions though. Alex is Ben's daughter. She's got a… fascination with your people."
I tried not to visibly perk up at the words "Ben's daughter", but there was no fooling Richard. His expression remained neutral, but I saw his eyes glimmer with the barest hint of amusement. Four days of snooping and digging hadn't gotten me any closer to finding out anything about this mysterious Ben, nor had it turned up any evidence of the existence of Henry Gale, and I was just about tired of being left in the dark.
Richard shooed me abruptly from the doorway, and as I crossed the lawn, I tried desperately to think of anything other than my own terribly self-conscious awkwardness around strangers. I was failing miserably.
The girl on the swing was tiny, her abundance of dark hair tumbling down her shoulders. She reminded me distantly of someone, but I couldn't put my finger on whom. Probably someone from my old life. From a distance, she could have been 14 or full-grown, but as she looked up and realized I was there, her expression beamed and I could tell there was something still very childlike lingering about her.
"You're one of them, aren't you? I've seen you before." She smiled, feet shuffling in the dirt for a fraction of a moment before she stood.
"I guess you could say that." I responded. "My name is Tristan."
"Alex." She replied. Then, narrowing her eyes, "What are you doing here?"
"I didn't see eye to eye with some of the others in my camp. But… I met someone who made me think I might have better luck here…" I murmured, dismissively.
"They're treating you ok?" She was almost whispering.
"Mostly." I smiled, my morning with Harper floating to the front of my mind.
"You should come in." She responded, brightening once more.
As Alex led me around to the front door, I had a thousand questions swimming in my mind. Questions about Ben, about this place, about the crash survivors, about Henry. She recognized me immediately, did she know who Henry was?
I was conducted into the sunny front room, a space packed with bookshelves and furniture with the kind of shabbiness you might expect from your college professors' offices. Photos, all, it seemed, of Alex, crammed the walls.
"Can I get you anything?" She asked, breaking my attempt at surveying the room.
"Water is fine, thank you." I responded, sinking onto the sofa.
She disappeared into the kitchen and I resumed my slow marveling of the space I found myself in. Dusty, leather-bound books were crammed alongside innumerable jungly-looking tchotchkes and enough dated décor to remind me, in an odd way, of our hatch. I tried to focus on individual photographs, baby Alex, school photos, child Alex with a kitten. No photos of her with friends.
She had returned, and was pressing a glass of icy water into my hands. I took it, still grateful for the luxury of something like ice after the weeks of brackish and lukewarm water on the beach. It wasn't long before she began to inundate me with questions. I answered her as best I could, my own private mysteries still begging me to search for answers, but the best I could do was allow my eyes to keep straying to the photos crowding the walls. It put me at an odd sort of ease, this house. Whoever Ben was, someone who was this proud of his child couldn't possibly be the terrifying authoritarian I had built up in my imagination.
I continued to sit there, knees pressed together, Alex growing increasingly bubbly and animated with each question I answered, and I allowed my eyes to continue traveling over the photographs, now and again craning my neck for a view of the frames crowding the space behind my head. I had just taken a sip of water when my eyes fell on it.
I felt my entire insides go hot and cold at the same time. It was probably a miracle that I didn't spit water halfway across the living room, as I felt blood rushing toward my ears. I forgot to swallow for a long moment, and when I finally remembered, I gulped and choked out:
"Alex… That's your father?"
I watched her face darken slightly, as she regarded the photo in question. A lanky, pre-teen version of herself, giggling, being pushed on the backyard swing by the man I knew only as Henry Gale.
"Ben?" She asked, sullenly.
"That. That's Ben?" I was aware that I suddenly felt quite ill.
"Why?" She asked moodily, then, looking up, "Are you ok?"
"I'm sorry, I have to go." I stood abruptly, trying not to run as I headed out the door and back across the lawn toward my own cottage. Richard Alpert was waiting on the front porch as I returned.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I was conscious that I was practically screaming, but controlling my own volume was hardly a concern at this point. His eyes still danced with that infuriating amusement.
"You need to decide whether you want to stay based on your own reasons, not for or in spite of anyone that might be residing here."
"He told me to stay on the beach, Richard. What do you think he's going to do to me when he finds me here?"
"Well… You can find out for yourself in a few days, Tristan. They should be back sooner, rather than later."
"What if I decide to leave?" I asked defiantly.
"You're free to leave whenever you want, just as you were free to come here. But I'll warn you that Ben is very suspicious of your people, and it might not reflect so well, if you change your mind again."
"Yeah, no shit." I murmured, feeling still sicker. "You'd be suspicious too, if they locked you in a closet and beat you every day."
"It was his choice to gather information about the survivors." Richard said, almost trivially.
"I guess I've made my choice." I sighed. "Will you tell me when he gets back?"
"I'll tell you when he's ready to see you."
A/N: OH MAN, We're SO CLOSE. I only made you wait, like, three chapters. And, like... six months.